Not Being Dead

By C G Hanley

Real life is untidy: disparate elements collide where they are least expected. What happens when these elements are sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, art and crime? This existential tragicomedy throws up the results.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781467894333

C G Hanley

C G Hanley was born in Glasgow, Scotland, where he studied at the Art School in the Sixties before giving up art for a career as rock and jazz guitarist, underwriting this by designing pop-art pubs and drawing a sci-fi strip, while dabbling in journalism and other menial work. Jumping back to his first love in the Eighties, he now splits his time between painting (exhibiting in London, New York and graffiti capitol Bristol; winning the prize for Westminster Artist of the Year 1991) and writing.

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© 2011 C G Hanley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 1/27/2011.

ISBN: 978-1-4567-7212-3 (sc)

ISBN13: 978-1-4678-9427-2 (ebook)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any Web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

he picked up the card. It had fallen out of the envelope as he tore at it, recognising as his thumbnail sliced under the gum-strip, the heavy presence inside of another ‘special offer’ from the soggy pizza company. Not…

"Dear Henry You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of Eleanor and Gwilym."

Gwilym! He’s a fucking architect! And she’s married him! What’s she doing, getting married, anyway? Nobody gets married anymore. And didn’t her mother finish it off for us all, marrying all those artists and writing that evil poetry about them afterwards? Hmm?

Henry slouched on back from the hall to the kitchen, picking up his dressing gown from the floor as he went. It felt damp from the bare floorboards, but it was better than naked.

The milk wasn’t off, yet. It wouldn’t matter anyway, with muesli, but black coffee first thing in the morning was definitely out. While consuming a leisurely breakfast, he read the invitation again, slowly. Appraised the design of the card. Not bad. Almost frame-worthy; built by hand. Looked up. The back view, so familiar it was wallpaper - red brick, moss, treetop waving at the clouds. The day ahead. Overhead. Looming. The loom of life. One month since the ceramics department closed, followed by early retirement. He could have taken over graphics, though. They were blatantly unenthusiastic about that option. He knew he had lacked diplomacy when it came to talking about the college’s increasing tendency towards so-called new media and similar shite.

Look for the big flag in Blomfield Road. Fais Deaux Belle will depart from Little Venice on Saturday 12th at 2pm, to arrive at the Leghorn at 4pm with celebrations in poetry and song.

‘What, do they expect us to sing?’

‘No, Stella, I think they will have something organised for the boat.’

‘Oh, that’ll be a shame. D’you think Henry will be there too?’

‘No doubt. If they asked him, he will go. I know my brother. He’s not cut out to be a loner. I’ll call him in a while.’

Henry back from the shops. Welcomed by the plaintive toots of his answering machine.

‘You have one new message. Message one: Monday ten a.m. It’s Oscar here. You towny - out again, and it’s only ten in the morning. One time I’ll call you and perhaps you will pick up the phone. End of messages.’

Oaf calls me a ‘townie’ just because they live out in Chiswick. They call it London.

Going back out, left past the new, gasp, tandoori place; left again to Portobello Road and the pub.

‘Well well, good morning. You’re up early today!’

‘Not as early as you think. It’s just the bags round my eyes.’

‘Ha ha! So,’ - clapping and rubbing hands- ‘what’ll it be, then?’

‘Um, a pint of IPA should do for a start, please.’

‘Coming up!’

The newspaper. More stuff about the telly and their jobs. Nothing about Oscar, though. How many in-house producers have they got left, now? Bloody America. We should call the government the Labor Party. Remember that one. She’s nice. It’s the eyes. Looks intelligent. And firm…

The door swung open: customer two. Jerry Parkin weaved in and edged towards the bar.

‘A Kronenbourg. Pint. Ta’ -slamming cash on the counter; scooped up and into the drawer

schhtoom cadunk - a non-expressive return slam of change

Elbow on bar, he twisted round to Henry.

‘Heyyy, long time no see.’

‘No, I’ve been… making some changes in my life.’

‘Cool. Need any stuff?’

‘Probably not, thanks. I think I’ll take it easy all round.’

‘Fair enough. You still teaching?’

‘No, I’ve chucked that.’

‘But the studio?’

‘Still using the studio though.’

‘Shepherd’s Bush?’

‘Yes’

‘Who’s that girl, Maria, she says it might be coming down.’

‘Well, there was a rumour it might be demolished, but it’s okay - the potters live on.’

‘The potters, eh? Ha!’

Henry’s openness towards Jerry was mostly from habit; he deeply regretted having revealed the studio’s address to him. At the time it seemed like a convenience, having the kid drop in with a regular supply of good dope at a fair price, and it increased his standing with his fellow (and younger) artists, but the boy was a bit too matey sometimes (or was it just that Henry was getting old?) and the whiff of the underworld he carried had long since lost its glamour, as the possibility of a brush with The Law grew more likely for ‘people like us.’

‘So! What d’you think? Gwil! Look at the back!’

‘Jeeziz, should you wear that in public?’

‘Haha! I shouldn’t even let you see it yet. Bad luck, isn’t it?’

‘Oh Baby, I don’t care!’

Blissfully unaware of the torrid deep-pile carpet scene playing out merely fortyfive minutes’ walk from the kiln he shares with two other craftsmen, failed suitor Henry keeps a steady hand as he throws another slightly avant-garde pot.

‘Henery! What on earth brought you out here?’

Oscar looking down, ushering Henry indoors.

‘I got your message. Whining again. I finished early at the studio tonight anyway. I’m thinking of getting rid of this old car - tonight could be my last trip for a while.’

‘Well, what kind of life are you living now? Without Angela, the job, and no car too?’

‘What’ll I need a car for, now? There’s no bloody place to park it, and I can get the Tube everywhere.’

‘I bet you would’ve just gone home, if you weren’t mobile.’

‘We-ell. Yes. I just turned off to Hammersmith as a bit of a whim.’

‘What do you mean, whining?’

‘That stuff about me being out again.’ -Henry walked into the living room, sprawled heavily on the couch- ‘You sound so different from your telly self, it’s fucking funny.’

‘You’re talking about being professional. That’s what it’s all about. And you sound like a fucking whiner too, when you get going. Stella!’

‘I’m still fixing the curtain!’

‘She’s up there, doing the D.I.Y. Want a drink?’ -walking through the little hallway, across the living room to the shelf behind the sofa. The television silently flooding its end of the room in irritated blue.

‘Sure. Is this whisky?’

‘Of course. You didn’t think it was sherry did you? …Glasgow left its mark in a few ways.’

‘That was only a year.’

‘More than a year, remember. Long enough to learn the trade. And enough to learn serious drinking, hah! Well. Did you see my show on Sunday?’

‘Yes. I did. -Where did you get all that stuff about funk art? I thought it had died out in 1970.’

‘Well, you see it didn’t - the name just changed, and it stopped being cutting-edge, as far as the critics were concerned. I expected you to catch it, as so much of it was about ceramics. The guy practically walked in out of the blue.’

‘Well, who the hell cares what the critics…’

‘It’s all grist to the mill…’

‘Yes, I saw the listing. I couldn’t do your job, you know. You give terms like ‘cutting-edge’ some kind of credibility.’

‘Well, you know, you can change the meaning by changing its context…’

‘Context! That’s another one!’

‘..in time or place.’ -‘And who says a blue painting’s more or less blue if it’s in a gallery or on a shelf?’ -‘And one trope aught to be just as viable, as significant, as any other. That means the traditional beside the language of ideas.’

‘Ideas? Are they separate from paint? You can’t imagine how many ideas go into just one picture or sculpture.’

‘Yah yah, I’ll bet I can, but - you know - art can grow from the idea to the concept, as an end in itself.’

‘Some end. Anyway, ‘simportant to keep the meaning as it is, it’s a language we use, so we can understand each other. And when some bugger shifts the goalposts…’

‘Well, now, you can’t do a Pol Pot - that’s a good one - and stick to cave painting.’

‘…’ Henry thinking about white rooms and skips

‘And traditional forms of expression don’t have to be more meaningful than new media-’

‘For traditional, read art. Fuck’s sake, you used to sound more like a hippy; where did you-’

‘So did you. But don’t get hung up on phenomenology - you want to…’

‘Phenomenology?